The Muse's Undoing

“You used to like that.”

I roll my eyes and stand. Facing him, I offer a hand. “Get up. You’re going to bed.”

He looks up at me, suddenly all dreamy-eyed. “I fucking missed you.”

I shake my head. “To sleep.”

Fischer takes my hand and rises, shoving his body against mine and planting his face in my neck. I am instantly hard for him, my dick jolting in my shorts like it got zapped by a cattle prod. “Fischer,” I groan. “We’re not doing this tonight. Everything’s a mess.”

He runs his hands up my chest and inhales like he’s getting high off touching me. It’s not helping.

“You’re not sober,” I say as I try to keep myself from melting into him.

“I need you.” His fists tighten in the fabric of my shirt. “This can’t be wrong, it can’t be. It’s so right. I love you. So fucking much. So fucking long, baby… Shit…”

His forehead meets my shoulder, and I hold him up because he’s sinking. I gather he hasn’t been sleeping either. He’s practically dead on his feet.

I can’t pick him up. Destroying the tree took a lot out of me, and the loneliness flu didn’t leave me energy to spare. Together, we stumble toward the bed, and he falls first, slipping from my grasp as soon as his shins hit the mattress. I settle down beside him, helping him up the bed to the pillows where I rearrange the mess I’ve made and give him his nest to lie in. Fully facing him, with my eyes wide open and his shut, I stroke his face, my thumb moving back and forth across the stubble on his cheek. Unable to help myself. Missing him so much.

My cock is rock hard, begging me to do something about this gorgeous sleeping man in front of me who just told me he needed me, but I let it ache. While I’m fairly confident he’d be thrilled to wake up with me inside him—all is forgiven, right? I wouldn’t be okay with it. Nothing is settled. He could leave in the morning and never look back—setting me free to find “what I deserve.”

This last week has been so painful, I have to forgive myself for snuggling closer to Fischer, even if it means my dick is smashed up against his, which isn’t altogether soft either.

“Fuck, dude,” I sigh, wrapping an arm around him and kissing his forehead. “You will never stop scaring the shit out of me, will you?”

“Matty?” he murmurs.

“It’s me. I’m right here. I’ve still got you.”

I wake up, and we’re grinding. Opening my eyes, I find his still closed. It was actually his voice that woke me. He’s talking in his sleep again. “Wanna get it in me…”

Fuck, this feels good. “Fischer,” I whisper.

“Stop, it feels too good…I can’t…”

“Fischer, it’s me.” Goddamn, I’m dangerously close to kissing him to shut him up.

“Unh…fuck…”

It takes everything I’ve got not to sling his leg across my waist, whip out our dicks, and go to town. Regretfully, I slide my hand between our grinding hips and physically push him back.

He startles awake and immediately cups his crotch. “Jesus,” he whispers, seeing me, realizing he’s at the loft. Reality seems to crash in on him at once, and his body gives a powerful shudder accompanied by an obvious cry of shocked release.

I flinch. Fuck, that has to either hurt or be so embarrassing he wishes it hurt more.

He’s lucky he’s still got a lot of clothes here.

“Can I, uh…do anything?” I ask.

“Shit, I’m sorry. Bet that wasn’t what you wanted to wake up to.”

“That’s not exactly what I woke up to,” I tell him.

With both hands covering his crotch, he whips his head my way. “What did I do? Was I talking?”

“A little.”

He groans, turning his back to me.